Caecus
by Musica Diabolos
Summary: Pre-Stanford. When an unpredictable hunt leaves Sam helpless, he learns of his family's devotion as well as his own personal strength, as he prepares to make one of the biggest decisions of his life. Hurt!Sam, Protective!Dean. Written for the SOSL on LJ.
1. Caecus I

Hooray I have wireless internet to post this!

Written for the 2009 Summer of Sam Love Fic Exchange, based on Gidgetgal9's second prompt: Sam is trapped by some sort of creature that feeds off of human desires. Before the creature is killed by John or Dean- it feeds off of Sam and his desire not to hunt. It takes Sam's (voice, sight, hearing- something like that). Sam learns about his family's devotion and his own strength while dealing with the disability.

The story is set pre-series, right before Sam leaves for Stanford, and also examines his reasons for leaving with references to the pilot, which is something I've always wanted to explore.. I have to admit I took great liberty with the mythology because I just couldn't figure out how they would kill it…anyway, I hope you guys enjoy it and give Sam some love!

Standard disclaimers apply. Spoilers for Pilot only, in the prologue and epilogue.

**

* * *

Caecus**

_October 2005_

"Now," said Dean impatiently, "you gonna come with me or not?"

"I'm not." The response was practically reflexive, the argument solid and based on four years of going over the conflict in his mind, wondering if there was anything he would have done differently.

There wasn't.

"Why not?"

"I swore I was done hunting for good." He had meant it, too, every word. There were just some things you should stay away from.

"Come on," his brother said lightheartedly. "It wasn't easy, but it wasn't that bad."

"Yeah?" He replied, annoyed. "When I told Dad I was scared of the thing in my closet, he gave me a .45."

"Well, what was he supposed to do?"

"I was nine years old! He was supposed to say, 'Don't be afraid of the dark.'"

"Don't be afraid of the dark? Are you kidding me, of course you should be afraid of the dark! You know what's out there!"

Indeed, it had been Dean, so many years ago, who had told him that it wasn't the darkness itself he should be scared of. It was something far worse.

"Yeah, I know," Sam said patiently. "But still – the way we grew up after mom was killed, and Dad's obsession to find the thing that killed her…we still haven't found the damn thing, so we kill everything we can find!"

_Before it kills us, maims us, or destroys our lives._

"Save a lot of people doing it, too."

That was Dean, the world's white knight in shining armour – or dark knight, really, because it was hidden under layers of illegality, subterfuge and crude humour. But who knows who they would have been, the both of them, if not for some cruel trick of fate?

If it _was_ a trick of fate.

"You think Mom would have wanted this for us?" He played his final overplayed card. If not for hunting, Dean could have gone to school as well, been anything he wanted to be. Sam was the "geek boy" of the two of them, but Dean was far from unintelligent. He was just…distracted.

Sam followed his brother outside.

"The weapons training, and melting the silver into bullets? Man, Dean, we were raised like _warriors._"

"So, what are you gonna do? You just gonna live some normal, apple-pie life? Is that it?"

Dean's tone was mocking, but almost accusatory

"No, not normal." Sam paused, searching for the word. "_Safe_."

"And that's why you ran away?" Dean scoffed. Sam can almost hear the words he doesn't say…_You're a coward…You deserted us…You're a selfish bastard and a poor excuse for a brother...The monsters won't go away, just because _you_ did._

"I was just going to college," he replied angrily. "It was Dad who said if I was gonna go, I should _stay_ gone. And that's what I'm doing."

"Yeah, well," Dean continued, "Dad's in real trouble if he's not dead already. I can feel it. I can't do this alone."

"Yes, you can."

"Yeah, but I don't want to."

Sam looked at Dean then, _really_ looked at him, and knew what his decision was going to have to be, whether he liked it or not.

_

* * *

May 2001_

He could feel the blistering heat all around him. A woman above him, on the ceiling, screaming and burning…_don't look don't look_ but of course his treacherous eyes are open and he can see her face. Soft, and beautiful, long blond hair, pure white nightgown drenched in blood that _drip drip dripped_ into his open mouth…

Sam Winchester woke with a start, drenched in sweat, the terrible coppery taste still on his lips and making his stomach rebel. He made it to the bathroom and spit into the sink, shaking; he had bitten his tongue, nothing more. It was his own blood.

Sam made his way back to the bed, hoping he hadn't woken Dean. He was lucky enough to have his own bedroom for once in the house they were currently renting, but his older brother seemed to have a sixth sense for Sam's nightmares. Which was fine when he was five, but now he could look after himself.

It had been his seventeenth birthday, a weekend when he was confined to the house with the flu and a seriously bored sibling, when he had finally asked Dean what he had wanted to know for years. Sam had been told that his mother had been killed by a supernatural being, nothing more; now, however, he knew the whole truth.

Mary Winchester has been killed in _his_ nursery, burned on the ceiling above _his_ crib.

It was sometimes hard not to wonder…did that make it his fault? Had the demon, perhaps, been after him? Dean had tried to quell that notion immediately; after all, the – _thing_ wouldn't have left him if Sam was truly what it was after. And his Dad, of course, with his _need-to-know_ policy, never told him anything.

Then the dreams began.

Every so often in the year that followed, he would see his mother's death – or what he thought was his mother's death – in his sleep. Sam knew that, in all probability, it was just his subconscious reacting to Dean's description of what had happened – but there were details there he shouldn't have a memory of…the stuffed animals in his bed, the feel of the blankets around him, his mother's face – something he had only seen in the rare photos left lying around – and her voice. He couldn't recall his mother at all, and yet Sam was revisiting her murder in his dreams.

Maybe Dean was right to call him a freak, although that was out of affection and for very different reasons.

Sam tossed and turned for another half hour before giving up on sleep altogether…after all, the sun was up and they would need to get moving in a few hours. They were moving locations again, now that he was done with final exams. He had already said goodbye to his friends of the past three months, half-heartedly waving aside their invitations to graduation parties, with empty promises that he would see them all again.

The chances were he wouldn't. Probably not in this lifetime, because of his father's obsession; they were moving around more than ever, as Sam grew into adulthood. Dean didn't mind, of course; then again, he enjoyed one-night stands more than actual relationships, as well as the "bad-boy" aura that came with the constant secrecy and the impermanence of their homes.

With a sigh, the youngest Winchester decided to check the mail one last time before resigning himself to a new address. He liked to do this before his Dad got up, in case there were letters of…a specific nature.

With the help of one of his teachers, Sam had been looking at colleges for the latter half of the year. The expensive application fees made it virtually impossible to choose more than a few, but so far it had paid off incredibly; Columbia, the closest to where they were staying next, had booked him an appointment for a pre-law scholarship interview on the weekend. If he could somehow get out of his Dad's next hunt…

The letterbox was almost empty; Dean and his father hadn't sent out any credit card applications lately. But there were a few things…some sort of magazine addressed to his brother (he flipped it to the bottom of the pile quickly), a bill they would probably never pay, and –

A letter. Addressed to him. Emblazoned with the obvious symbol of Stanford University.

Sam wondered if his heart had ever beat so fast; the only equivalent was probably his first vengeful spirit, and he had been about nine years old at the time. This was different; it was nothing to do with fear, and everything to do with excitement. The envelope was far too thick to be a rejection letter.

He was back in his bedroom and sitting on his bed before he even realized where his feet were carrying him. His hands were shaking as he turned over the envelope, carefully putting one finger under the edge of the flap…

"Sam?"

_Oh, crap…Dean._ He fumbled wildly with the envelope, stuffing it under his pillow and then sitting on top of it, trying to look nonchalant. The door opened and his brother stuck his head around.

"Hey, kiddo, what're you doing up?"

"Nothing," Sam said quickly, before realizing that the pile of envelopes at his feet gave him a perfectly innocent alibi. "Just, you know…looking at the mail."

"Really?" There was that annoying, knowing look in his brother's eyes. He knew something was amiss, and he wouldn't rest until he found out. Sam tried not to shift nervously, hoping the unopened letter beneath him would remain silent and unseen.

His brother's eyes scanned the pile of mail; Dean reached out and pulled the magazine out from underneath the rest, grinning.

"Sammy, were you looking at porn?"

Although he was inwardly sighing in relief, Sam did his best to sound incredulous.

"What? _No_!"

"Oh my God, you totally were."

"No, Dean," he said, putting enough annoyance in his tone to fool his brother. "I wasn't. Don't be stupid."

He wasn't meeting his brother's eyes, but he could imagine his brother's expression.

"Hey, man, don't worry, I won't tell Dad," Dean snickered.

He sat down on the bed beside Sam, who immediately tensed up.

"Come on, Sam, you don't have to be such a prude all the time! Lighten up! Didn't you even have a date for the prom?"

"I didn't go to the prom, Dean. We were on a hunt."  
"Still, you could have asked someone, just for practise."

Dean seemed barely able to contain his enthusiasm, as if he had been waiting for years to find out that Sam was a horny teenager just like every other guy his age.

"I have more important things to think about, Dean."

"Geek," Dean said, clapping him on the back. "You cannot go through life without seeing a girl naked. Plus, it's like, the only kind of compensation we can get with the job."

Sam blinked.

"You're a bit of a man-whore, Dean, you know that? Besides, girls aren't interested in me, either. I'm just a freak with a bunch of scars and an unusual knowledge of firearms."

"What are you talking about? Chicks dig scars!"

"Not in high school, Dean."

"Whatever, dude. You're still a prude."

He stood up to leave.

"Five minutes 'til takeoff, Sam." He paused. "Actually, make that ten. I know how you like to fold everything, OCD boy."

Sam scowled.

"Hey, Dean, have you shrunk?"

His older brother scowled back and flipped him the bird as he left the room, and Sam grinned. It was the only thing he had over Dean; they were now the same height, to his great annoyance, and Sam was far from done growing.

He was mostly packed already; with a glance at the now open door, Sam carefully placed his unopened Stanford letter inside his duffle. He would have to wait to be alone again.

* * *

They had been driving for about an hour in silence (Dean's hand twitching every few minutes to the cassette player) before he finally asks the question. His little brother is fidgeting like crazy, crammed into the backseat practically with his knees up to his chin (damn kid needs to stop growing).

"So…you gonna tell us where we're headed, sir?"

He used politeness to the max because the look on Dad's face was like a friggin' thundercloud, which usually meant that one of them had screwed up badly.

"Greenville, Ohio."

Simple answer, no more or less than what he'd asked for. Typical Dad.

Behind him, Sam shifted and sat up.

"Wait, we're not going to New York?"

He sounded almost panicky. Dean wanted to respond with something snarky (_Sorry, Sam, you'll have to cancel your tickets to _The Lion King _for now_) but now that Dad was communicating he had more important things to say.

"And we're hunting…"

"I'm not sure," John Winchester said shortly. "Caleb phoned me this morning. Apparently an old friend of mine was killed there, and I need to find out why."

_Damn._ Well, that would explain it. He glanced at Sam, who suddenly had this sorrowful look on his face (moist eyes, fast blinking, rapid swallowing that made his Adam's apple look like it was on a pogo stick) that was his sort of automatic _someone-we-sort-of-know-just-died_ mode. Which seemed to be in use more and more often lately…

_Dude, enough with the chick-flick moment_, he mentally chastised himself, turning away from his brother and muttering simply,

"I'm sorry, Dad."

He could be simple and concise, too.

"Did Caleb have any idea what did it?" Sam asked.

"No. But there have been other deaths in the area, might be a connection."

"So it might not even be anything supernatural."

Dean glanced at his brother. Why was he pushing this? He tried to give him his patented _Shut up, Sam_ look, but he couldn't bend his neck far enough. He settled instead, for:

"People are dying, Sam. That isn't enough for you?"

"I'm just saying, maybe we should stick to the original plan, the poltergeist in New York - "

"Isn't killing anyone," his father answered sharply. "I'm sure they can survive a weekend of their car keys going missing while we check out something more dangerous. I assume you don't have any issue with saving lives?"

Dean tried to communicate his _Shut up NOW, Sam_ look with similar results, but his argumentative brother was apparently on a roll now and could not be stopped. His motives, however, were still disconcertingly unclear.

"I'm not saying that, I'm just saying that we might be wasting our time!"

"Jason was a hunter. He was targeted for a reason - "

"So you don't think hunters can make mistakes, or be killed in 'normal' ways?" Sam was practically shouting now. "We're not friggin' invincible, Dad, we're just like everyone else - "

His father pulled over to the side of the highway with a screech of brakes that made neighbouring cows look up in alarm. He turned around to face his youngest son.

"Get out of the car."

"What, you're kicking me out now?"

"Get out, and start running. I don't know what your problem is, but you obviously need to blow off some steam."

Fuming, Sam untangled his long limbs from the back seat and got out. Dean hesitated, then followed.

"I'll go too, sir."

"Fine. There's a gas station a few miles away, I'll meet you both there."

The door slammed, the wheels spun, and the Impala was soon gone in a cloud of dust. Dean turned to his brother.

"What the hell, Sam?"

"It's the way he treats us, Dean, it's like - "

But apparently Mr. Drama Queen had no words to describe John Winchester.

Altogether, the whole constant bickering both annoyed him (though he would only admit that to Sam) and worried him a little. It was like a natural disaster waiting to happen these days, or maybe even a nuclear explosion. How could they not see how much they were alike? Dean may have idolized his father since birth and imitated his every move through life (or at least tried to), but Sam truly fit John's shoes much better than he could. At least when he stopped being a whiny bitch and accepted the hunt as their way of life.

But honestly, he didn't know much further the crack could open before something devastating happened between them. It was like…they were both sliding down a cliff face, trying to grab for the same hand-hold without even realizing it. So where did that put Dean? He wasn't the cliff, that's for sure, and he sure wasn't hanging on there with him. Maybe he was the onlooker at the top, or the rocks that crushed them and were crushed at the bottom when his two remaining family members fell at last…

Okay, the metaphor wasn't perfect. Anyway…

"Still, you don't need to pick a fight with him every single day! He's not out to get you, Sam, he has other things on his mind."

"Right. That's what you said when he missed my graduation."

"So, he didn't have time to sit around all morning to watch you walk across the stage for thirty seconds in a friggin' gown."

"I gave the valedictorian speech, Dean. You were there."

"Yeah, whatever."

"Don't you ever – you know – wish we could just be a normal family? Even for a day?"

Dean paused.

"Well, to be honest, after what we've seen, it would be pretty friggin' boring." Sam turned away. "Look, man, I know you're into the whole 'fitting in, acting normal' stuff, but we _are _different. I've accepted it, hell, I _enjoy_ the life. Maybe you could too, if you tried getting that stick out of your ass and stopped blaming Dad for everything."

"I don't blame Dad for everything."

"Yeah, you totally do."

"Do not."

"Whatever, Sam. What you were saying, about hunters dying just like everyone else…Dad knows that, he doesn't need reminding."

"What are you now, his personal psychiatrist?"

"You kidding me? Dad doesn't talk to me or anybody. But…he knows, Sam, and it scares him just as much as it scares you."

"Dad's not scared of anything," Sam muttered.

"Oh, yeah?"

But Sam didn't have memories of the fire, of his Dad's eyes when he saw…whatever it was.

His brother huffed, turned away and started running, looking even ganglier than usual. The kid needed new clothes.

Dean sighed, and followed.

_

* * *

Six hours…_

As he sat on another crappy motel bed in yet another dilapidated motel room, tapping away on his laptop, all Sam could think about was the number of hours remaining before his scheduled (and un-reschedule-able) Columbia interview. Which would be absolutely impossible to get to at this point, being more than an entire state away. At twelve hours he had considered just hijacking the Impala and taking off before anyone was any the wiser, but Dean was dogging his every footstep. Not that that wasn't typical, especially this close to a hunt, but it was almost as if his older brother suspected something wasn't right.

Dean sat across from him on the other bed (their Dad had got a separate room so he could hang his newspaper clippings and have private conversations with other hunters who probably didn't even know he had sons) eating some disgusting fried concoction noisily and obnoxiously, though Sam knew his stomach was growling loud enough to be heard. His Dad had put him onto researching their potential prey, perhaps as further punishment for their brief shouting match on the road, and told him he could eat when he had discovered everything he could.

Kind of a long project, considering his hacking skills and the already enormous proportions of today's world wide web.

"So?" His brother asked, for the third time. "How's Dad's working theory…working out?"

"Everything seems to fit so far," Sam replied patiently. "All the victims were male, ages eighteen to forty…all basically in their prime of life. Went for a hike in the same patch of woods, all turned up in their homes later, dead -"

"And butt naked," Dean muttered. "Poor bastards. So we're dealing with some demon chick, right?"

"Well, not exactly," Sam said. "Dad noticed a few details that make it less likely to be a possession…for instance, no missing persons reports other than the victims, no one saw anything unusual like some kind of black smoke…but the rest fits."

"So, what're we dealing with then?"

"Well, I agree with what Dad told me…I'm pretty sure it's some variety of succubus."

Dean snorted.

"Dude, that's like, medieval times. Are you serious?"

"Dean, these things don't just die out. Not unless hunters kill them. People just started being more…rational, is all."

"Yeah, rational," Dean chuckled. "Don't you wish. So how's it kill them?"

"Just drains their energy, I guess," said Sam, frowning. "I can't figure out how exactly it knows what to tempt them with…but it's probably a bit like a siren, or a boggart, it can look inside your mind and use what it finds against you."

"A mindreader? That just friggin' sucks."

"Well, it explains why our age group is such easy targets. I mean, look at you, Dean."

"What do you mean?"

"You think I don't know what you're thinking about, most hours of the day?"

"Oh. Right."

"Yeah. And some of them had weird dreams beforehand, which fits as well."

"So how'd Dad's hunter friend get poisoned with some kind of Love Potion Number Nine?"

"Dunno. Maybe he went after it thinking it was something else and got caught by surprise?" Sam speculated.

"Yeah. Or else he was an easy target. Dad said his wife and kids died recently, he could have been off his game." He paused. "And stop making your emo-angsty-grieving face whenever I mention someone dying, it's really getting on my nerves."

"I swear, I don't know I'm doing it," Sam quipped, the corner of his mouth twitching. He glanced at the clock. _Five hours…_

"You got an appointment somewhere I don't about?"

Dean was watching him closely.

"What?"

"You keep looking at the clock. Even though it's an hour behind, no one bothered with Daylight Savings Time."

Oh, right. Damn. _Four hours…_

"Just checking the time," he said airily. "Anyway, don't you want to know how to kill it?"

Dean sat up, instantly attentive.

"Hell yes, I do. So what? Shotguns? It's not an ordinary demon, so no exorcism, right?"

"No exorcism," Sam confirmed. "It's like…a different breed of demon, doesn't need a host. Kind of like a shapeshifter. But there's no confirmed way of killing them that I can find…most of these sites just talk about protection from them."

"You're kidding me."

"Well, there's a lot of theories, I guess. Some people seem to think silver bullets would work, or anything made of silver. Other sites say drown them in holy water. One says…holy Gatorade…" He deleted it from his bookmarks. "There's a few kind of gruesome places that say you should just feed a priest to them, but, um yeah, not doing that…oh, and my personal favourite. Some say they can be killed by a scorned woman's tears. Shouldn't be hard to find with you around."

"Hey!"

Sam grinned.

"I'm the one who's had to listen to your hundreds of stories about casual hook-ups, Dean. You can't say they were all looking for just the one night."

"I pick 'em carefully, kid."

"Sure you do, Dean. That's why you're constantly getting your cell phone number changed."

"Hey, that's for our protection, Sammy, you know that," Dean admonished, but he was grinning.

"You boys ready to hit the road?"

Their father was at the door. Sam's stomach growled audibly again, and Dean tossed the bag of whatever he was eating in his little brother's direction.

"Yes, sir, Sammy's done with the research."

"It's definitely a succubus," Sam muttered, peering disconcertedly into the bag. "But there's no surefire way to kill it."

"Caleb and Jim have a theory," John said vaguely, offering no more information. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Awesome, let's get outta town," said Dean enthusiastically, grabbing his weapons bag and heading for the Impala. "I call shotgun!"

Sam sighed, stretched his already cramped legs, and followed.

* * *

Sorry about all the exposition and no action, but it is coming soon!


	2. Caecus II

Here's Part II! Thanks for reading, don't forget to review :) Standard disclaimers apply, small language warning.

* * *

As they got out of the car beside the dreaded patch of woods that was causing so much trouble, Dean kept a close eye on his little brother. Something wasn't quite right with him today; he was unusually fidgety, constantly glancing at the clock and once, the sun. Since the creature they were hunting didn't really have a pattern or indeed even a concept of time, it was odd that his kid brother should suddenly be obsessed with it. Maybe he just needed a new watch; the last one had been smashed last time Sam was flung into a tree by a malevolent spirit (Dean winced at the memory.)

He had just decided to watch his brother like a hawk during this hunt when his father pronounced the words he most hated to hear:

"I think we should split up, boys."

John must have seen Dean's expression, because he said quickly,

"I'll phone you both every half hour. I just know that we need to find this thing quick, before it kills anyone else."

It made sense, of course. The succubus was most likely to trail a lone man.

"But you _still_ haven't said how we're supposed to kill it," Sam said sullenly. Then, as an afterthought: "_Sir._"

"Simple theory," his father replied unconcernedly. "Human blood."

"What?!" Dean exclaimed. "I thought these things liked to sex up randoms, why the hell would they be scared of blood?"

"Blood given willingly," John amended.

"So it's like vampires," Sam interjected. "They like to drink blood, but dead man's blood huts them."

Apparently his brother's need to share every last tome of knowledge in his oversized had not died with his high school graduation.

"That's right," said his father, a minute flash of a grin in his eyes. Dean could tell, he loved it when Sam was apparently interested enough in a hunt to do more than angst and whine.

"So who's it gonna be?" Dean said, beaming, knowing the answer already.

It was obvious that, of the three of them, he was most likely to be a target of the succubus. Sam, after all, was a complete prude, and John still wore his wedding ring nearly eighteen years after their mom's death. He sliced open the palm of his hand and the edges of three silver knives were lightly passed over the welling cut.

"Silver as a precautionary measure," his father replied. The succubus was related to demons, after all.

They only had a few hours; it would be too dangerous, John said, to hunt this thing once it became too dark, especially since they had no idea what form it would take. Dean was personally envisioning a busty blonde…although that would make the succubus slightly harder to kill. For him. Mentally.

"Get your head out of the gutter," Sam muttered. Sometimes Dean felt as if he was _born_ with his head in the gutter.

But that was all irrelevant. He pushed the unimportant thoughts to the back of his mind until he felt mentally streamlined, focused entirely on the hunt. Since there was so much uncertainty about what they were facing and how difficult it would be to destroy it, it had never been so important to keep his head in the game. Oh, and of course: _Protect Sammy._

It was difficult when Sam was travelling in the opposite direction through unknown terrain to face the unknown.

The forest was quiet; he could see why the victims would have wanted to come hiking in such a peaceful spot, and also why they weren't expecting whatever it was that had come after him. It was almost too quiet, to the point of being slightly distracting; Dean was well-practised at muffling his footsteps and avoiding broken twigs and noisy leaves, so every sound around him made him tense in readiness.

His keen eyes scoured the undergrowth as well as the tops of the highest trees, looking for any sign of supernatural presence. A mile or so on either side of him, he knew that John and hopefully Sam were doing the same.

Another rustle in the trees behind him; he pivoted expertly, but there was nothing. Just the damn wind. Unless the thing was invisible, which would mean their theory was probably wrong. But it was most likely an expert at stealth of some kind, as the succubus had already got the jump on another hunter.

Instinct made him pivot again, the hairs on the back of his neck rising in expectation, but again nothing. So why…

There it was again. A sound he would recognize anywhere, a voice.

Calling his name.

_

* * *

Ten minutes…five minutes…two minutes…_

Sam honestly didn't know why he was bothering with the countdown anymore. Unless it was a countdown to something else…the end of his opportunities, perhaps? The beginning of his new life as a peerless ghost hunter, everything his father wanted him to be? There were no destinations here; there were no big goals, just one dangerous job after another. No income, no way to survive except by disobeying the laws set up by normal people. In other words, he was forever destined to be a freak.

Sam thought of the letter from Stanford, still nestled carefully in his duffel away from prying eyes. He shouldn't have invested so much of his time, energy and emotions into the idea that he could somehow do something other people his age did. Even if he was accepted, he had no funds at this point and would have to pay off a student loan for the rest of his life if he chose to go anywhere. Not to mention living expenses, textbooks (for a place of equal opportunities, the continent sure favoured people with a lot of extra _cash_)…all things that typical parents offered some help with. Then again, most kids didn't hide college acceptance letters from their parents. Most kids weren't afraid of their parents' reactions.

He'd wanted to live in the land of 'normal' for as long as he could remember; or at least since Dean told him the truth about what Daddy did on weekends. But the end of high school had lit a new kind of fire within him; Sam had believed that maybe, if he just acted for himself, he could actually make something out of this dead-end (literally) life that had been thrust upon him. It was a rush most teenagers probably associated with getting completely wasted for the first time, except he was embracing responsibility rather than rebelling against it. Thoughts of degrees, careers, even a permanent home (little white picket fence and all) crept into his mind, even as he realized that the hardest thing he would ever have to do if he was to go through with this…was leave his family behind.

Sometimes he thought that maybe his father wouldn't even notice if his was gone (one less obstacle in his road to becoming a stone-cold crusader for revenge), although his brother would have something to say about that. His brother…Dean had practically raised him. They were getting to the point where Sam thought they could almost be friends rather than siblings or the somewhat awkward father-son or simply protector-damsel relationship they seemed to have. In his life, no one had ever known him like Dean, and the idea of letting go of his one great comfort in life (despite all his immaturity, sexual references, fart jokes, and nearly constant physical and mental harassment) was like an iron fist on his heart. Not to mention what it would do to his brother. So was he being selfish?

Sam sighed. He was getting distracted, he knew, and should probably have been paying closer attention to his surroundings. When his Dad called in a bit, he would have no clue where he was. Not that he'd wanted to come on this stupid hunt in the first place. Why were they separated, when there was so much that could go wrong with Dad's theory? If he'd had time to do more research, it might have been fine…instead, he was being dragged into this wild goose chase with not enough information to satisfy his nerves. He would have done anything to be somewhere else. If he left, he wouldn't have to put up with this…

_Sammy._ It was faint, could have been mistaken for the quiet dance of leaves behind his feet, but it was there.

"Who's there?" He asked tentatively, trying to sound braver than he was. Sam held the knife out in front of him like a dueller, but his hand shook, betraying his fear.

Something brushed the back of his head and turned around wildly, slashing the air with the knife. There was no one there. Heart thudding in his ears, Sam scanned the trees before him. The creature could be behind any one of them…

_Sammy…_

There it was again, behind him, sounding much closer this time, as if a pair of lips whispered in his ear. He shuddered again and jumped away from the sound. God, this was really the _last _place he wanted to be right now…

"Where are you?" He asked, stronger this time. "Show yourself!"

_Sammy…I can _seeeee_ you…_

Sam swallowed hard, fighting terror, pivoting wildly with the knife.

"Well," he said, thinking of Dean and all his witty comebacks for everything they fought, "I – can't see you…"

That had definitely sounded better in his head. Apparently the succubus thought so as well; Sam could hear an eerie, childish laugh coming from directly behind him.

_

* * *

Dean…Dean!_

The cry was insistent, and unmistakably his brother's voice, but something was not right…stealth was the key here. Why would his brother be making such a racket? Didn't he trust Dean to come?

He adjusted his grip on the bloody silver knife as he ran swiftly and silently towards the sound, praying that his brother was just being stupid and panicking over a squirrel that ran by him…

There. There he was. His brother was shifting, turning wildly and clumsily, slashing the air around him with his knife. But behind him…something was solidifying…something…

"Hey you!" Dean shouted, shifting his position until he was perfectly balanced. "Get the fuck away from my little brother!"

The solidifying shape seemed to recoil, and then it turned to him. Dean blinked; it hasn't seemed so before, but now a lithe, graceful woman with flowing red hair stood before him.

"Dean," she said, her voice joining the whispers of the boughs all around them, with a hint of birdsong. She walked forward, and he faltered for a second, mesmerized by her beauty. "I've been waiting for you."

He could see Sam behind her though, looking terrified and just maybe like he was on the verge of fainting. Reality crashed back in. She had frightened Sam, she had hurt him.

"Sorry, bitch," Dean said venomously. "You're really not my type."

With that, he lunged forward with the knife, burying it in her chest. She gasped prettily, than began to wail hauntingly…

But something was wrong. There was no fire, no burst of killing light. The succubus was in pain, that much was obvious, but death didn't seem to be imminent. With one last terrible, tragic look, the creature ran away, swifter than he could follow.

"What the hell?" he muttered to himself. "Why didn't you die?"

"Dean?" A small voice whispered. He looked at his brother, who seemed to have gained control of himself. "Did you waste her?"

"Doesn't look like it," he muttered. "Damn it!"

* * *

Their father decided to call it a night and head back to the hotel to re-evaluate their strategy. It was obvious to Sam that John was highly disconcerted about his failed theory.

"And there's another thing," said Dean, sitting on the motel bed again while Sam typed away on his laptop. "I thought succubae were supposed to be simple temptresses, you know, demonic sluts! Why was this one so damn smart?"

"What do you mean?" He asked distractedly, rubbing his temples.

"She set us up! Probably used her Vulcan mind-melding crap on both of us, figured out I'd come after you no matter what and used you as bait."

"Yeah, I guess. I mean…maybe she was more _evolved_ than your typical medieval succubus."

"Yeah, maybe," Dean said, then frowned, looking thoughtful. "What did she look like to you, by the way?"

Sam looked up, wincing, one hand on his temple again.

"Um…I dunno, kinda weird. Like, human shape, but her skin was all greyish and she had this weird mark on her forehead, sort of like a spade…you know, like from cards?"

Dean chuckled.

"Figures."

"What?"

"Figures you'd be the only guy for miles around who didn't have sex at the back of his mind somewhere when she was around." When Sam didn't glare or roll his eyes, Dean frowned. "Hey, man, you okay?"

"What? Yeah. Just a headache. But I thought she was supposed to tempt all men?"

Dean snorted when Sam said 'men;' this time, he glared.

"I dunno, Sam, maybe she just feeds off desires. Doesn't really matter, we still need to figure out how to end her."

"Yeah." Sam rubbed his eyes. He was probably getting too tired for this; the screen was blurring, the light making his headache worse.

"You stare at that thing too long, you're gonna go blind, kid."

"Shut up. Where's Dad gone, d'you think?"

"Probably off to give Caleb a piece of his mind. Man, he _hates_ being wrong."

Sam didn't answer. The words on the screen were blurring worse than ever; with a sigh, he closed the laptop, digging his fingers into his eyes, aware of Dean's scrutiny.

"Is your headache worse? I can get you an Advil."

"Nah, my eyes are just tired, Dean."

His brother stared at him harder. Sam stared back, annoyed that Dean was being overprotective (the succubus had barely touched him, after all), when he realized the blurriness wasn't going away. He blinked rapidly, rubbed them, but it only seemed to get worse; it was becoming difficult to make out his brother's features in detail.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"What time is it?"

His brother looked at the clock on the wall.

"Quarter to midnight, can't you read it from there?"

Sam shook his head slowly, panic buzzing through his veins as if the succubus laughed in his ear once more.

_I can see you, Sammy…_

_Well, I can't see you._

* * *

"I still say you just need some glasses," Dean said humorously, as his father peered into each of his youngest son's eyes with careful precision. "I mean, you've been a nerd your entire life, you may as well look the part."

"Shut up, Dean," said John sharply, now shining a penlight into Sam's eyes, who flinched away. "Did that hurt?"

"Smarts a little," Sam muttered, rubbing his eyes again until his father pulled his hands away.

"Stop, you're probably making it worse."

"Yes, sir."

John sat back, looking troubled.

"Dad?" Dean asked, somewhat impatiently.

"Are you _sure_ she didn't touch you, Sam?"

"Yes."

"You're _sure_?"

"Yes!" Sam said, a little defensively.

"Did she even look at you wrong? Anything?"

"I told you," his little brother said quietly. "She was just – talking to me, that's all. Just trying to freak me out, so she could get to Dean."

"And what exactly did she say?"

"My name, mostly. And – she said she could _see_ me."

John paused, thinking hard, and Dean jumped in.

"Well of course she could friggin' _see_ you, Sam, she was standing right behind you!"

"That's not what she meant," his father said quietly. "It's hard to tell, as succubi are so rare nowadays…their behaviour is unpredictable…"

"No kidding," said Dean. "The one me and Richie killed a few years back burned up when I shot it with rock salt."

"Exactly," John continued, "there's no telling what we're dealing with. Maybe something closer to a lidérc, or even an Al Basti. The point is, the succubus may have been able to feed off of something other than…_sexual_ desires."

There was a short pause.

"Like what…Sam's desire for more homework?" Dean was nonplussed.

"No." John stared hard at his youngest son, who was biting his lower lip and watching his knees. At his father's silence, Sam raised his head.

"What? You think I asked her to take away my 20/20 vision? Why the hell - "

"Succubae don't grant wishes," said John sharply. "They take your desires and twist them until they turn against you. Those men we found were drained to death, their passions fulfilled beyond what they could ever have sustained. Every stray thought could have been used against you, Sam."

Sam wouldn't meet what he could see of his father's dark eyes.

"So, Sam, what were you thinking about?"

"Nothing." Dean gave him his _come on, dude, seriously_ look. "Nothing, okay?"

"Uh huh?" Dean knew from his brother's expression. "So you weren't thinking about…I dunno…how much you hated hunting, or something? Cuz having your eyes ruined would be a pretty damn fine excuse for staying home."

Sam went pale. It was as good as a confession.

"Samuel Winchester, you are almost eighteen years old!" Their father's face was livid; he was on his feet and pacing. "You should know better than to be daydreaming in the middle of a hunt! Have you any idea how much danger you put yourself in? How much danger you put _Dean_ in?"

"I'm not a friggin' robot, Dad!" Sam's features were clenched with pain once more. "I'm sorry if I can't control my own _thoughts_ for two seconds!"

Dean swallowed down the lump rising in his throat.

"Shut up, both of you, just stop it!" He shouted, but his family ignored him.

"Don't you dare talk back to me!" John yelled, louder than Dean. "This is our job and we always give it our full attention, if we don't want anyone to get hurt!"

"It's _your_ job, not mine! I never asked for this!" Tears were starting in his little brother's eyes, either from pain or emotion Dean wasn't sure.

"So you don't think it's important? We're _saving lives_, Sam!"

"It's all about you, Dad, you and your stupid obsession, and if we get hurt along the way, well, it's all just in the line of duty, isn't it?"

"It's your own damn fault if that thing hurt you, don't you turn this on me!"

John stormed out before Sam could open his stupid tactless mouth again, and Dean followed.

"Dad."

His father kept walking to the car.

"Dad, come on. Can't you tell he's hurting right now? Would it kill you to actually tell him that you care?"

John Winchester looked at him fleetingly, but it was enough to see it in his eyes. Of course he cared. He cared too damn much, that was the whole problem.

"Look after your brother," he said, then got in the car and pulled away.

Dean couldn't help but glare at the back of him. What exactly was so hard about telling someone you gave a damn about what had happened to them? What _was_ happening to them?

He stalked back into the room, determined to give Sam a piece of mind, but his little brother was huddled in the center of the bed with his shoulders trembling and his hands over his eyes.

"Whoa, whoa, Sam, you okay?"

He was at his side in a second.

"Sam, Sam, open your eyes."

They were red-rimmed from tears and pain, but Sam didn't seem to be looking at him; his hands were roaming, searching for his older brother's hand.

"Dean?"

Panic rose in his throat.

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Did – did you turn out the lights?"

"No."

Sam shuddered.

"It's all dark, Dean. I – I can't see anything."

* * *

Part III will be up in a few days, please don't forget to review and share the Sam love!


	3. Caecus III

So, naturally, parte tres is the most important, and the one I've been planning for all along. Neat how that works, innit? Erm, some disturbing content in one section, warning to the younger crowd…Thanks to all who have read and reviewed, sorry for the ridiculous wait! Life just gets in the way at this time of year…Lots of love to gidgetgal9, hope you like the ending :)

* * *

It had been hours, and the darkness still unnerved him. Sam had seen things in his life that most people would need lifetimes of therapy for, but this – this was worse. The helplessness, more than anything. He kept opening his eyes to their full extent, closing them than opening them again, as if it were all simply a mistake that could be rectified in the blink of an eye.

Pardon the pun.

They'd been hurt more times than he can count: bullet wounds, stab wounds, broken bones, twisted ankles, concussions. All healed with a cursory nod from their father, a steady hand and a promise that it would all be better soon. He'd never doubted those words before.

But now, no one said any such thing; not his father, not even his brother, who would lie to him readily if it meant Sam might feel better about the situation. But not a word; they were as scared as he was. Or at least he thought they were; he could only guess by tiny inflections in their voices, which he was becoming more and more accustomed to as the hours went on.

At first, they discussed him in whispers that he was nevertheless able to make out easily; he could hear his father pacing again, and Dean fidgeting, perhaps putting his hands in and out of his pockets (a soft _swish_ of leather).

Eventually John Winchester murmured something about ammo and left the motel room for the second time, leaving Sam alone (again) with his brother.

"So…Sammy…"

"Don't call me that."

The harsh tone of his voice surprised even him, and he heard the same shift of leather as Dean recoiled slightly.

"Fine, _Sam._ How're you feeling?"

"About the same." He tried and failed to keep the bitterness out of his words. The burning sensation and the dull ache behind his eyes was gone, but the darkness and the terror remained.

"Hey, I mean, maybe it's not even permanent, right? We probably just have to waste the bitch, that'll probably take the spell off!"

"Yeah," Sam said quietly. "Maybe."

"And – and even if it is - " Dean was babbling a little now, apparently concerned at the defeat in Sam's voice – "We can still work with it, Sam! We can look after you, me and Dad, and hey – maybe we'll even get you a dog! You always wanted a dog!"

Sam nodded miserably, a tightness rising in his throat. If this was permanent, if he had to live with this darkness forever…he couldn't bear it, he just couldn't…he would always be defenceless, helpless…

Suddenly, he thought of the letter from Stanford, left unopened and unread in his duffle bag. Now, he would never know…even if they had accepted him, he couldn't go…not like this…

Because of Sam's stupid distraction

Without warning, before he could even think of preventing them, tears filled his eyes and spilled over, hot and wet on his cheeks. He could hear Dean moving quickly to his side, the bed sinking as he sat and put an arm around Sam's shoulders.

"Oh, God, is it something I said? I'm sorry, Sam…Sammy…please don't cry…"

"No…" Sam shuddered and took some gulping breaths, trying to control himself. "It's not that, it's…" But what was the point anymore, of hiding or pretending?

He steadied himself. This was Dean, after all. The same Dean that had told him the truth about their family, read him _Goodnight, Moon _over and over until they both had it memorized, helped him with the chemistry homework he barely understood himself, taught him how to shoot a gun and a crossbow, stood up to their Dad so he could join the debate team and the Mathletes, coached him on asking out his first crush, helped him write his valedictorian speech.

Explained how Mom really died.

Sam owed his brother the truth, even if it didn't really mean anything now.

"Um…" he pinched the bridge of his nose. "There's – an envelope in my duffle bag. Can you get it for me?"

The sound of rummaging through cloth, the delicate _snick_ of paper removed from its hiding space. Then a pause; Dean had seen the emblem on the corner.

"_Stanford University_? Sammy…"

"Just open it. Please."

Unspoken words echoed in his mind, all in Dean's voice…_We can't afford…Dad would never allow…If your eyes don't…_

But he had to know.

Dean had the letter now, had unfolded it.

"Can you - " Sam swallowed hard (it was not so easy, after all, to pretend indifference) – "Can you read it to me? Please?"

There was another long pause; knowing his brother of old, Dean was probably scrutinising him. It was, in many ways, a formulaic letter, most likely composed by a computer without much thought or feeling. But certain words jumped out at him, hit Sam square in the head like mental barbs…_pleased to accept…due to certain criteria including GPA, several letters of reference…full scholarship including residence…prestigious pre-law program…_

When Dean finished reading, neither of them spoke. Sam didn't think he was able to anymore. All his wildest dreams in those few words, everything he had ever wanted since he was fourteen years old. Just to hear it, despite everything, was like a soothing tonic but at the same time a vicious poison. He had been distracted on the hunt because of what he had wanted. And now that he had it, the hunt had, by cruel twist, ripped it away from his grasp before he even knew…

His eyes were dry. Sam turned his head in the direction of Dean's breathing.

"Can you read it again?"

* * *

It was too much, Dean thought miserably as he cleaned the guns. It was just too much. It had been a long time since so much depended on their success in a hunt. They were going to have to leave Sam behind, first of all, pretty much defenceless without his sight; and as much as he strived to keep his emotions at bay, creatures that maimed his little brother (perhaps permanently) brought out in him a certain type of rage that he secretly feared and simultaneously relished. Their father seemed of like mind; there was no more cool efficiency and careful planning. They were going all in.

"I've collected everything that might help," John Winchester said. "Holy water, holy wood, various herbs, some ideas Caleb had…"

"And every gun, knife, machete, stake, etcetera that could possibly kill an evil bitch," Dean finished, grinning slightly. "Oh, and torches, my personal favourite."

John gave him a look.

"Fire is our most dangerous tool, Dean. It can't always be controlled."

"Yes, sir."

Sam was sitting on the bed, listening to the walkman Dean was saving to make a new EMF meter. His eyes were closed, thank God, because his vacant stare from normal-looking eyes was really starting to creep Dean out.

He knew he should be a little more shocked about what Sam had shown him, but somehow…maybe he had suspected something like it all along. After all, this was Sam. The same Sam who never gave up on finding the truth in everything, who probably still had _Goodnight, Moon_ memorized, who had helped Dean help him with his chemistry homework, who had been a star Mathlete, who had wrote a brilliant graduation speech that made him sound just like any other kid who was destined for great things. _Normal_, great things.

It was everything Sam had ever wanted, he knew. So was it selfish to have held him back all these years? He obviously wasn't interested in the hunt, despite the flashy nobility of their actions. But now, of course…now, the hunt had maybe maimed him beyond repair. The question remained, though…if push came to shove, could he let Sam go? Could _Dad_ let Sam go?

Well, the latter was probably an easy one. Funny how Sam, who wanted to go to friggin' _law school_, was the rebel in this family. Kid had nerve, that was for sure.

"Let's pack and go, Dean," their father murmured, with a half-glance at Sam. "It'll be dark soon."

Dean looked at his brother, too. His eyes were open, staring at the wall directly behind Dean, and he knew Sam was looking at him. Probably wondering the same things as him. Probably a hell of a lot less scared than he was, though.

"Just a minute, Dad," he said. "I just need to show Sammy something."

* * *

Sam listened to his brother's favourite Motorhead tape with his eyes closed. You weren't supposed to see anything with your eyes closed; that was normal. And so he pretended, for a little while, while his family prepared for what sounded like full-on war on the creature.

He had to admit that the panic had receded somewhat, replaced by a sort of calm equanimity that had no known source. A normal life, his utopia, had never and maybe would never be his because he and his family were once again victims of circumstance. It was hard to deal with sometimes, but there it was; and the letter, the letter gave him this peace, maybe. To know that it would have been possible.

He could hear his father and brother's lowered voices, talking over weapons and strategy, and for some reason had never felt fonder of them. As hard as this all was, just to know they would be there dealing with it with him felt very comforting. At least they weren't just dropping him off at Pastor Jim's, like a little kid who couldn't take care of himself.

But the helplessness still bothered Sam. Yes, there would always be someone there, but any independence he had been striving for could now be lost forever. Maybe there was a cure, but he had to be prepared for the worst as well.

He wondered if this was how it felt to grow up.

"Sammy? You still in there?"

Dean. He pulled out the earphones.

"Yeah. I'm blind, not deaf." The corner of Sam's mouth half-twitched into a smile.

"So not funny. Anyway, I wanna show you what we've figured out for you, while we're gone."

He frowned. "What, the salt lines? I've seen those millions of times."

Dean chuckled. "Whatever. C'mere."

As Dean led him around the room, guiding his hands towards each windowpane so he could feel the granules, he felt odd. As annoying as it was to be treated like a child and an invalid, he could sense the gentleness in his brother's hold and the devotion in his voice. It was touching, just to hear Dean talk, even though he knew that it was for both their sakes.

"Don't worry about me, okay, Dean? I won't even move from this bed."

"Yeah, you'd better not." Dean snorted. "There are about ten lampposts in this parking lot alone that probably have neon signs on them saying 'Run into me, Sam!'"

Dean set him back down on the bed with that same gentleness that didn't match his voice.

"Now, a couple other things. Feel this?"

Dean led his right hand to a piece of yarn tied to the left bedpost.

"Leads right to the bathroom sink. I'm hoping you can figure it out from there."

Sam snickered.

"And this one on the right? Leads to the door. Don't let anyone in who sounds like an evil bitch, though."

"Whoa, really?"

"The TV remote's on the bedside table, along with a glass of water. Set it all up to Family Channel, so you can listen to _Lizzie McGuire_ and _Suite Life_ if your girly heart so desires."

"Thanks, Dean."

"And this is the most important. Don't tell Dad, he'd think it was too dangerous."

His brother paused, then lowered his voice.

"My silver hunting knife is under your pillow. Handle's on the right side."

Sam nodded.

"See you later, little brother."

Dean's soft, padding footsteps reached the door; then he paused.

"Look, Sam, if this doesn't turn out the way we want it to, maybe we can see if - "

Normally, Dean wouldn't be caught dead in a 'chick-flick moment,' but Sam interrupts anyway. He doesn't want to hear it, not really.

"See you later, Dean."

* * *

His father agreed that it was best not to split up this time around, since the succubus had most likely got a good read on the both of them the previous night. If they stuck together, it would give her colliding signals and lessen her power of temptation.

Dean felt the normal thrill of the hunt combined with the powerful, cold rage of before. He and his father worked as a seamless team, communicating with hand signals so as not to utter a sound. After a few necessary preparations, they moved silently and swiftly through the dark trees, searching for a sign of the creature's presence.

A slight rustle, but not the sound of nature, Dean could tell; his father signalled and they moved behind the trees, away from the clearing their query was approaching.

She was just as beautiful as he remembered from the previous night, no sign of the wound he had inflicted. She moved forward with careful grace, smiling as though sensing him. His father jerked his head slightly to the left. Rapidly, Dean whirled around the tree to reveal himself, firing off a shot of silver and rock salt into her chest at the same time.

The succubus let out a cry of surprise and annoyance, then looked up at him with silvery-blue eyes, sparkling unnaturally on a night with hardly any moon.

"Dean…" she whispered, rapture in every tone. "You've come to me!"

She stepped towards him, but all at once her way was blocked, as if by solid air. As one, she and Dean looked down to the ground, where a complex set of symbols had been etched into the mud in a perfect circle. Dean smiled silkily.

"Oh, I came back, sweetheart, just not for you. Demon relatives, demon weaknesses, funny how that works, innit?"

The succubus opened her beautiful mouth, and a terrible sound escaped. It was the cry of a child in pain, but there was something _wrong _ about it; something ancient and horrifying. It pierced Dean's ears like the voice of a banshee, and it was all he could do not to drop his gun and cover his ears.

"Son of a bitch…"

There was a splash, a hiss and a smell like burning, and the wail was abruptly cut off. John had stepped out from behind his own tree and blasted the creature in the face with a flask of holy water. She fell to the ground in the center of the circle, hands over her face, which seemed to be less and less substantial…

"And that, son," said John quite seriously, "is why you should never go for looks alone."

"Nah, she wasn't my type anyway." Dean grinned, taking a wooden stake out of his jacket as his father unsheathed his machete.

The succubus looked far less beautiful; the illusion was leaking off in unattractive patches where the holy water had touched her flawless skin.

"Johnny Winchester…"

Her voice changed. She was peeking out from behind her hands now, unusually sharp grayish teeth bared slightly. But his father flinched suddenly.

"Don't kill me…please, don't hurt me…"

Now her features were reforming, differently this time; her hair was pale, her face rounder, her eyes larger and kinder.

For the first time in almost eighteen years, Dean saw his mother.

"Dad…" But what could he say?

Nothing was needed. He saw the flash of cold hatred in his father's eyes; John whipped out the flask and sprayed holy water over his wife's image.

This time the succubus screamed; the entire illusion was blasted away and Dean saw the monster Sam knew. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her entire complexion stone-coloured, her hands like the claws of a predatory bird.

"Damn, bitch," he said. "You are ugly…"

She glared at him through a curtain of greenish, stringy hair. John raised his machete…but something was wrong…

"Wait!"

John glanced at him.

"What is it?"

"Sam said something about a mark on her forehead…"

The spade his brother had mentioned was suspiciously absent.

"Can – can they change their appearance when they're trapped with holy water?"

"No," said John immediately. "No, Bobby said it destroys their power…" He looked thoughtful, then rage inundated his features once more. Without stepping inside the small circle, he jammed the machete against the succubus' throat.

"Feel that iron? Now, why don't you tell me how many of you there are." The creature said nothing. "Answer me!"

She giggled childishly, and the pointed teeth seemed to fill her mouth as she smiled.

"Oh, there's just me here right now, Johnny," she hissed. A serpentine tongue flicked out, and Dean couldn't help but shudder. "But my daughter…"

"Your daughter?" He repeated, dumbfounded.

She smiled, and simpered.

"She's taken a shine to your little boy, Johnny."

"To Sam?" Dean stepped forward, his stake pointing between her eyes. "What's she want with him?"

Another laugh.

"Oh, I don't know…" she sighed, human-like. "Kids these days, can't control them can you? So go ahead and kill me," she addressed his father again. "But don't expect poor Sammy to be waiting for you when you get home."

With a snarl, Dean lunged forward.

"If she's touched a hair on his head, I swear, you fucking - "

"Dean." John radiated calm, even in the best of situations. With a restraining hand on his eldest son's elbow, they backed away from the trapped creature.

"What the hell do we do?" Dean murmured, his voice tinged with panic. "Sammy's - "

"Safe," said his father. "We've set up the protection around the room."

Dean bit his lip. Something else had occurred to him.

"But Dad," he said slowly, "if she can control any guy in this town…"

There was comprehension in his father's eyes, but still he betrayed no fear.

"Go after the other one, I'll take care of her. For good, this time."

Dean's mouth twitched.

"What?"

"It's just…how the hell does that thing have a daughter anyways?"

John raised his eyebrows.

"There's lore about succubae mating with incubae, but nothing's certain about - "

"Okay, you can stop there, Dad, _so _did not want to hear about demons having sex."

If there was a grin, it remained hidden. Dean didn't care; dark humour was as good as any humour when they were on the hunt. With a twisted smile, he turned and began running back to the Impala, his heartbeat quick as dread filled him once more…

* * *

The silence was driving him out of his mind. He'd been left alone in motel rooms more times than he could count, but he'd always found something to do. Or think about. It was funny, in a way…Sam would've thought that with only darkness to see he'd find much more to contemplate. But for some reason there was only blankness. Just…nothing.

Part of it was worry. He felt useless as well, sitting there with Dean's pieces of string as his lifelines, the only thing tying him to sanity and a sense of order, while out in the woods his family was in danger. Again.

When he listened to the silence, though, _really_ listened, there was something, after all, to listen to. He'd heard stories, read articles about people whose other senses improved dramatically when they lost one, and they didn't seem to be wrong. Sam could hear a delicate symphony of cars pulling softly over the gravel of the parking lot, the sound of carpet-muffled footsteps from the rooms above and beside him, the clink of glasses toasting some happy occasion. Or maybe not so innocent, he knew what a lot of cheap motel rooms were used for. Still, it was all rather soothing, in a way. _Normal_.

Again with the normal. He could almost hear Dean groaning in his head and saying _Shut up, Sam._

Hopefully, Dean was still alive and unharmed…

No, no, stick with the noises. The creak of bedsprings, once, twice above him. The muted slamming of stiff windows. His own breathing, the rustle of his clothing as he shifted his position on the bed. Sam couldn't lie down, wouldn't sleep until they were back, and so he sat with his back against the headboard, knees drawn up to his chest. Almost as if he was afraid of extending his limbs into the impenetrable darkness.

But no, he wasn't scared. Not at all.

_You're going to be fine. Everything's going to be fine._ Remembered words, a mantra spoken over and over every time something went wrong on the hunt. And Dean had often been right to say them…was he this time? As Sam got older, the little white lies seemed more and more apparent. It wasn't about trusting his brother; it was about not having any illusions.

Was _this_, then, how it felt to grow up?

A flutter of wings; a bird landing on a bush, perhaps. A knock on a door further down. A plane coming for landing…were they close to an airport? A squeal of tires, a –

A voice. Or two of them. Whispering, outside his door.

And one of them had haunted his dreams the night before.

"_Do it for me."_

"Anything."

The second voice was human, unmistakably male, and young.

"_Open it. And break the line. I can't do it, but you can._"

Sweet, beautiful and terrible, sending shivers up his spine. Clicks, scratches. The doorknob wouldn't hold. And Sam didn't know really, what to do –

A sharp bang; the door swung clumsily open. Shuffling.

"_Thank-you, my love._" But then a crack; something fell to the carpet with a crash, and he didn't want to know, he really didn't –

The door closed with a small snap.

"_Sam…Sammy…"_

His heart skipped a beat; he was frozen in place, back against the wall, and he wasn't sure where she was but she was _there in the room_ and it was like he couldn't breathe –

"Get the hell away from me," he gasped, feeling for the edge of the bed.

"_Now, now," _she said lovingly. "Why are you running away from me?"

She made another sound, like a quiet sigh, and suddenly he was frozen in place again.

"There, much better."

Sam's breathing quickened as panic set in, his heartbeat so loud in his own ears he wondered if the succubus could hear it as well. Somehow, he didn't think it would make a difference.

He felt her slight weight on the bed and he could imagine her, crawling seductively towards him, teeth bared in a –

No. He thought of Dean, only of Dean, Dean who was going to save him –

"Your brother isn't going to come," the whisper came, immediately.

"You can't stop him," he muttered, his voice shaking. "You can't use him - "

"Can't I, Sammy?"

It was his brother's voice. But it was wrong, all wrong.

"You're not him," he said, stronger this time.

She giggled, back to herself.

"You're right," she said. "But think what _fun_ we're going to have together, all the same."

She was closer now, close enough that he could feel her breath on his face. She smelled sickly sweet, something familiar that he couldn't place. And _Ohgod_ one of her hands was on his knee and it was gentle but cold as ice and her other hand was all at once on his cheek and her fingers were sharp and so cold –

"Don't touch me," Sam said, as he shivered and started to shake. "Get your hands off me."

"But _Sam_…don't you want me?"

The succubus' voice had suddenly become deeper.

"Sammy…"

The hand on his cheek caressed his chest and was moving slowly, gradually further down and all at once he knew what she wanted but _Ohgodohgod_ he didn't want it at all and her face was up against his and her lips brushed his own and now he knew that she smelled like death, only death could smell like that –

She inhaled his scent, her face in his hair now, and Sam could feel himself becoming disgustingly, disturbingly aroused. He groaned.

"There, there, darling…" She sighed. "You're so beautiful…and so…_delicious_…something about you I just can't let go of…the _scent_…"

"Please…please stop…"

He was breathing shallowly now, clenching and unclenching his fists. She was kissing him now, her lips frozen and he tried to stay as still as he could –

"They always talk about your father, you know. _John_. So powerful. So…hungry for our blood. Your brother, too. But _you_, Sam…they just don't talk about _your _blood enough…"

She was distracted, he knew, ecstatic by whatever it was he smelled like, and his hands could move, they could grope behind him under his pillow –

"You're _different_, Sam."

"Please…"

His fingers closed on the sharp blade of his brother's knife and Sam bit back a yelp as it sliced deep into his palm, knowing he would have only one chance at this…he could hear two hearts beating, now…

"That's why I came back for you. It didn't go right, the first time…I couldn't give you what you really wanted…"

His right hand found the handle and he gripped it like a lifeline –

"You're not like the others…so _sweet_… I just don't know what it is about you…so _delectable…_so - "

Sam didn't let her finish, whipping his hand out and stabbing the heart he could hear so clearly beside his own. This time, he knew exactly what Dean would say.

"Fuck. You." Sam said between clenched teeth. "Bitch."

The wail of pain he had been expecting didn't come, the cry abruptly truncated; the succubus' hands fell away from him and he heard her roll of the bed and hit the floor beside him.

A burst of light, a flash of pain; Sam cried out, but it was over as soon as it had come. There were bright lights and loud colours all around him, overwhelming his senses; then everything slid into smooth clarity so abruptly he felt dizzy.

There were two bodies on the floor of the motel room. One was a boy no older than him, his head twisted around and his limbs splayed horribly around him. The other was the succubus.

She was beautiful, this time, her long red hair fanning around her in death. The spade was still visible above her eyes; her mouth and eyes were both open in shock. His brother's knife protruded from her chest, stained with his blood as well as hers.

Sam fought the urge to vomit; the room tilted alarmingly as another wave of dizziness hit him. He was transfixed by the corpse before him, but disconcerted by his complete lack of any remorse. He felt no pride either, no hate, no…anything. She was messing up the carpet, dark liquid leaking from the somehow fatal wound.

Sam realized suddenly that his cheeks were wet.

Was this, then, how it felt to grow up?

It was then that his brother burst through the door.

* * *

"So…Dad's theory _worked_?"

It was the same scene. Two brothers on their separate motel beds. Sam paused.

"Yeah, I guess…doesn't make sense though."

"Yeah, I mean, me and Dad went all out with the other one, stabbed her, chopped off her head, burned her corpse...Dad said it took forever for that stupid bitch to die. So why did your blood on the knife work and not mine?"

"Dunno." He hadn't seen it happen, after all, was sure it was somehow a fluke. It _must_ be a fluke. He and Dean shared blood, they were family, after all.

"Maybe cuz you were more of her victim then I was?"

"Maybe."

But there was so much else to consider, so much that he wasn't sure he would ever be able to tell Dean. About how she said he was _different_. How he smelled…different. How she couldn't get enough of him. And disturbing as they were, her words haunted him, frightened him. If any of it was true, would others come after him?

Would all of them be in danger?

"Hey, freak," Sam looked up at Dean, who snapped his fingers. "You in there? Something else going on? You can still see, right?"

"Yeah."

_Freak_. Dean called him freak already. No, he could never tell. And the look in his father's eyes, when he saw what had happened…did he know something Sam didn't?

"So…" With the silence continuing, Dean seemed determined to make conversation. "You and Dad gonna make up?"

"Dunno," said Sam again, rummaging half-heartedly through his duffle bag.

Dean sighed.

"He really does care, Sam. You know that, right? I mean, you should have seen him kill that thing last night - "

"Don't say it." He struggled to make his voice sound less harsh. "I don't want to hear – I mean, I am _done_, Dean. I am just – _done_."

His brother was staring at Sam's hands, and he realized that he had unconsciously pulled out his Stanford letter. He looked down at it. This was real, now. This was happening, he could make it happen; the thought made his stomach leap. Then Sam saw the look on his brother's face.

"Dean - "

He needed to explain, to try to explain. Things were different now…

"So, that's it then? You're leaving?"

It had always been Dean's way to make it plain and simple. Black and white. There could be no in-between, no shades of gray; there was only wrong and right, right and left, up or down. Radio on or off.

"It's hard to explain."

"Well, are you going to tell Dad at all? Cuz I sure ain't."

"Look, man, don't be like - "

"Sam, I know you've always been big on the 'pursue-your-dreams' inspirational-soundtrack crap, but don't you think it's time to grow up now?"

"I have grown up," Sam replied coldly. "I've grown up enough to know that I don't want this life anymore. It's - "

"What? Too dangerous?" Dean scoffed. "Are you saying this is cuz you got hurt? We've been hurt before, Sam, sort of comes with the job description. Back on our feet in no time."

"It's never for sure. Just last night you said yourself you might want to look at other options for me."

"That's cuz I felt sorry for you!" Dean shouted. "Because I look after you, I try to protect you, my whole life! And now you're running the hell away because something scared you!"

"It's not like that!" Sam struggled to get the words out, his throat tight. He never argued with Dean, not like this. "You and Dad, you enjoy this life!"

"We are _saving people, _Sam. Every day. We're going after the thing that killed our Mom. Does that mean nothing to you? You're willing to just abandon your family for some cushy apple-pie picket-fence meaningless life?"

"It doesn't _have_ to be meaningless, Dean," Sam said, softer this time. "I don't have to save people from the monsters in their closets in order for my life to be worth something."

"So you're going to go off and be some hotshot lawyer - "

"Stop demeaning it! There are billions of people out there, most of whom have never seen a ghost in their lives!"

"And they've got nothing to do with us, Sam! We're _different_, we've seen too much, we've been training for this our entire lives! It's like our - "

"Don't say destiny." Sam's eyes were hard as flint. "Don't you dare say it."

Dean stared at him, his lips pressed tightly together.

"I need - " His words were so crucial, it was so important to make his brother understand that he _had_ to do this – "I need to control my own life, Dean. Make my own choices." He paused. "Come on. You've gotta know that I don't belong in this life, Dean, I never have. Going to school, doing something – _normal_ – it's all I've ever wanted. Please. _Please_ say that you understand."

Dean just stared at him, apparently lost for words. Sam cleared his throat.

"If it means anything, I promise that I'll – I'll let you know – before I leave. You know."

The silence seemed to stretch for hours. Then finally, painfully, Dean nodded.

"Okay, Sammy."

_

* * *

November 2005_

Sam could remember a class he and Jess had taken together, the year before, about Dante's _Inferno._ She had basically dragged him there, because 'literary benefits' or not, he was reluctant to have anything to do with religion, death, or the afterlife. Not that he didn't believe in Hell – how could he not – but there was something unsettling about reading about it, analyzing it from an innocent, human perspective.

Eventually, however, he had found it intriguing. How each punishment for each sin had some sort of poetic quality about it, although of course the worst was saved for Lucifer. Trapped waist-deep in a lake of ice, unable to escape when all he'd wished for was free will.

Sitting beside his brother on the Impala (Dean still had a tight grip on his upper arm, as if afraid he'd run back in), watching as they carried out his girlfriend's body from their burning apartment, Sam thought of how the fallen angel must have felt, and wondered if it was at all like this.

But what had he _done_, exactly, to deserve this?

He'd tried so hard to get away from the life he'd hated, to have the freedom of his own choices. Sam had worried at first that it would be his family that would drag him back; that was why he'd been reluctant to leave with Dean.

Always trust your first instincts.

Instead, the hunt itself had come to find him. The horror of the burning body on the ceiling, his nightmare for the past few months (Sam had thought those would disappear as well, when he had left)…apparently the monsters in his closet had decided to come after him, him again, and it didn't matter that he'd tried to be normal. The more he tried to get away, the harder it was, the tighter the ice held on. No one was safe from whatever it was that attracted the monsters to him like moths to a lantern.

How could he ever have thought an escape was possible, knowing what he knew? It had all been an illusion. Even the engagement ring, concealed in his sock drawer.

At the thought, hot tears spilled out of his eyes, burning trails down his cheeks on that cold night. He tried not to make a sound, knew Dean could tell he was crying anyway because he gripped his arm even tighter.

"You're going to be okay, Sammy," he murmured.

Little white lies, Dean, little white lies.

But he looked at his brother and saw his lifeline, his way out, his…escape, even. There was no time to grieve. He had to fight back; that was the way to keep the people he loved safe. This wasn't destiny, though, this was a choice as well, his choice. The choice not to wallow in shameless self-pity or broken dreams. The choice to get right back up again on the battlefield.

Sam knew what he had to do now; his way was clear. There were no more illusions.

He had been wrong so many times before: _this_ was how it felt to grow up.

* * *

Thanks for waiting and reading! I'm sorry it wasn't a happy ending. I tried, but I guess Season 4 has really changed my perspective on Sam and what can be in store for him. I infused as much of his awesomeness as I could, however. I hoped you guys enjoyed it, thanks for celebrating the Sam love this summer! I'm working on the last chapter of Solitude, I'll see if it's up before the premiere. Please review, and let me know your thoughts!


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